


Charlie and Dennis: Small Business Idiots

by chrundletheokay



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, References to Uncle Jack, South Philly, Weed, and also lowkey dating in early seasons?, i am softe for charden, mostly just dudes being bros. hanging out. teasing each other. having fun., munchies, nothing explicit or specific about CSA / trauma in here but it's definitely alluded to, planning a life together. or a business. same thing really., remember when charlie and dennis were best friends?, well i do!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 10:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: Early 2000s. A late night in South Philly with Charlie and Dennis, weed, Paddy's business planning, and junk food.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [[ TW/CW: Dennis's ED/disordered eating, references to Charlie's childhood trauma (but nothing specific mentioned), weight/body talk, lots of food talk ]]

Maybe it’s all the Sugar Free Red Bull Dennis has been drinking, or maybe it’s genuine enthusiasm for his latest life plan, but he is vibrating with energy and excitement when he meets Charlie in front of the pet store after Charlie’s closing shift.

“I’m telling you, Charlie, you gotta get in on this with us. Me an' Mac, I mean.” He bounces up and down on the balls of his feet as he watches Charlie lock up the front door and shove the ring of keys into his pocket.

With one last jiggle of the handle to test it, he offers Dennis a quizzical look. “What is this again?”

Dennis throws his hands up in exasperation. “The bar thing, man,” he exclaims.

“Oh, right, right. We’re still on the bar thing?”

“What d’you mean _still_?” He scowls and waves a dismissive hand in Charlie’s direction.

The two of them make their way down South Street, weaving around the trashcans that line the curb for the next day’s collection. Charlie kicks at misplaced bits of garbage as they go.

“Anyway, we’re _doing_ it,” Dennis insists eagerly. “We’re doing the bar thing. Me and Mac. And you, if you want to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, bro!”

“Yeah, alright.” Charlie shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, if you guys are serious about it—Like, Den, I can’t even tell you the kind of day I had, man.”

“Charlie, you work, like, four hour shifts, a couple times a week. How bad could it be?”

“Okay, it’s _five_ hours, first of all. And one of the cats brought in fleas, so now we have an infestation on our hands,” he shrieks. “My manager is a fuckin’ idiot, dude.”

“Gross.”

Dennis takes a quick step to the side, to allow for proper distance between himself and any possible infestations. How far fleas can jump, anyway? He scrunches up his face in distaste as he studies his friend for signs of disease or flea bites, although he’s not sure what that would look like. Not only that, but even under the yellow glow of the streetlights, it’s too dark to get a good look at Charlie.

Charlie notices he’s being examined, and huffs out a frustrated breath. “It’s _fine._ I’m not gonna give you fleas. I don’t even have any, probably.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a flea collar. “Been carrying this around the last couple days. Wasn’t really sure if humans can wear flea collars, so… in the pocket it goes.” With that, he stashes it away again.

“Jesus, dude.”

Charlie gesticulates wildly, his voice increasing in volume and pitch. “I’m telling you, Den, it’s _crazy_. I’m like, knee-high in fleas! That might not sound like a lot, but let me tell you — do you know how small a flea is?”

“They’re pretty small,” Dennis allows.

“Yeah, man, pretty fuckin’ small. So knee-high is still a shit ton of fleas. Probably at least a billion of ‘em. Maybe even a million.”

He charitably decides not to remind Charlie that a billion is more than a million.

Secretly, Dennis agrees with Charlie’s assessment: his manager _is_ an idiot, but not because a stray cat brought in fleas on his watch; no, in that line of business, it was inevitable. Where Dennis is still stuck is how and why Charlie, of all people, has been entrusted with closing. They’re best friends, and he loves the guy, but he would never trust Charlie with that kind of responsibility. The kid is scatter-brained as hell, and was fired from his last handful of jobs — and for good reasons, too. If Charlie remembering to put the cash in the safe and lock up the store is the only thing keeping the place from being robbed, then God help that idiot of a manager, because they’ll be robbed blind in no time.

When they reach the next intersection, Charlie stops in front of his and Mac’s favorite water ice place, its windows shuttered closed for the night.

“Hey, my place or yours?” Charlie asks.

“Oh, hey, you got a place after all?” he exclaims.

For months, Charlie had been trying to get an apartment in Section 8 housing, but he had run into problems: a shit ton of red tape, a long wait, forms he kept losing (and probably didn’t understand to begin with), and plenty of other bullshit that hadn’t interested Dennis in the slightest.

“Yeah; it’s this way.” Charlie gestures to the right, then shoves his hands back in his pockets. “Not too far. I’ve been meaning to show you for a while.”

Dennis looks up and down the mostly-empty street: to the left, in the direction of his and Mac’s apartment; and then to the right, toward Charlie’s new place.

“Yeah, alright. Mac’s having this chick over. She’s totally gross, although that’s basically a given with him. But dude, she’s _super_ loud in bed, and you do _not_ wanna know what kind of shit she’s into. I’m telling you—”

“No, dude. I really don’t. My place it is, then.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Dennis agrees.

He lets Charlie take the lead. On the walk over, Charlie regales him with stories from work: a woman who brought in a chihuahua that pissed on another customer’s leg; a man who came in to shop with a parrot that repeatedly shrieked “that parrot is dead;” and, because it’s Charlie, more information than Dennis ever needed or wanted to know about fleas and the treatment of flea infestations.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [[ TW/CW: Dennis's ED/disordered eating, references to Charlie's childhood trauma (but nothing specific), body/weight talk, lots of food talk ]]

“Anyway, here we are,” Charlie announces as they stop in front of a row house. The presumably broken windows are boarded over with plywood, and a neon _CONDEMNED_ notice is posted on the front door. All over the house, the paint is peeling, and the wood is rotting. Posters for long-past shows are wheatpasted to the plywood boards, and multiple spots on the building have been spray painted with names and political slogans.

Dennis stares in horror at the house. If this is Charlie’s new place, he’s pretty sure Charlie is living in a crack house.

“What, _this one_?” he stutters once he’s finally located his faculties of speech.

“Yeah, this one right here.” Charlie gestures to the crack house.

“ _What?_ You can’t be serious, dude.” His voice comes out far louder and higher-pitched than he would like, so he forces himself to take a deep breath, and releases it slowly.

“Yeah, it’s like… no one is living here, so…” Charlie shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “I just thought… y’know, why not? Why not me?”

“Because it’s _condemned_ ,” Dennis exclaims, pointing to the sign on the door. “Unsafe for habitation.” He doesn’t bother reading the part about fines and jail time, because surely Charlie can read that part, even if words like _condemned_ and _habitation_ and _trespassing_ are above and beyond his reading comprehension level. “You do know what ‘condemned’ means, right?”

Charlie scoffs. “Yeah, I know what—Dude, all I’m saying is don’t condemn it till you try it.”

He approaches the boarded-up window to the left of the door. There’s an ugly scraping noise as he pushes at the plywood, revealing an empty window frame behind it, and the dark house inside.

“C’mon,” Charlie calls over to him, but Dennis refuses to budge.

“No. Absolutely not.”

He turns to leave, but Charlie grabs at his arm to stop him.

“It’s fine,” he says emphatically. “I’m here all the time, dude. Trust me, it’s cool.”

Dennis sighs heavily. “Bro, I’m pretty sure you’re leading me into a meth lab, or a crack house, or something. I’m not trying to get murdered tonight.”

“Don’t be such a bitch, Dennis. I’m telling you, I’m here all the time, and—” Charlie glances conspicuously up and down the sidewalk; there’s no one in sight to eavesdrop, nothing nearby but litter and trashcans. Even so, Charlie leans in and pitches his voice down low. “It’s fine. I never see anyone, and no drugs, either. Just what I bring with me.”

He snorts derisively, and shoves lightly at Charlie’s shoulder. “You’re such a dildo, dude.”

Afterward, he pauses, as if in silent consideration. He’s already convinced, though — not only by the promise of weed, but also by the sudden idea of one-upping Mac with a good story when the night is over. After what feels like a sufficient period of feigned contemplation, keeping Charlie waiting in suspense long enough, Dennis sighs in fake-reluctance. “Fine,” he agrees **.**

“Sweet.” With a wicked grin, Charlie pushes at the plywood again, and crawls through the window frame, landing with a loud thud inside the house.

A moment later, he reappears, holding the board back for Dennis to clamor through after him. When Dennis jumps down, he finds himself in an empty living room. There’s not enough time to get a good look around — Charlie covers the window back up, plunging them into darkness, save for a little light creeping in from the streetlights.

As drafty as the building is, it cuts down on the cold breeze considerably. But with no heat running, there’s still a cold bite to the air indoors. Dennis zips his leather jacket up and wraps his arms tight around himself.

“God, this place is creepy as shit,” he mutters into the dark.

He blindly searches for the outline of Charlie’s form. After an agonizing ten or fifteen seconds of heart-racing panic, he finds Charlie, and resists the truly embarrassing urge to cling out of fear.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” he questions.

Charlie sneezes at the cloud of dust they’ve kicked up. “Yeah, s’fine,” he sniffles. C’mon this way; I’ve got some lights in the kitchen.”

The uneven wooden floorboards creak below their feet, as if protesting their presence every step of the way.

As it turns out, the lights are several oversized camping lanterns, which Charlie turns on and places on the kitchen counters. Their pale yellow glow reveals a kitchen as decrepit as the outside of the building. In the dim light, the wallpaper looks discolored, its printed pattern faded; big chunks are peeling away from the wall, revealing another layer of aged wallpaper below. There’s a dirty, discolored patch of floor where a fridge must have stood, and another where the oven and range probably were. All that has been left are the built-in cabinets along one wall; and two mismatched, beaten-up wooden chairs sitting in another corner of the room.

As he takes in his surroundings, Dennis frantically retreats until his back is as close to the wall as possible, without actually touching the filthy surface. He looks around in horror once more, then out into the dim hallway toward the exit to safety, before finally looking to Charlie — Charlie, who is slouching in one of the chairs, unbothered, gnawing away on a fingernail.

“Am I about to be murdered, Charlie?” he hisses. “Are you about to murder me?”

Charlie rears back and looks at Dennis like he thinks Dennis has gone insane. “What? No! Why would I— _What?”_

“Then what the fuck is this? What are we doing here?”

“It’s—Like I said, I’ve been hanging out here. Just till I can get my own place. That’s all. That Section 8 shit is actually kinda complicated, you know. There’s, like, a waitlist and everything before you can get a place, and… I dunno…”

“So you’re living _here_ in the meantime,” Dennis clarifies, incredulously. Charlie has always been eccentric and unpredictable, but this is a lot, even for him.

“Not exactly _living_ here. Just… hanging out. Just, like… when shit gets, you know… too crazy at my mom’s, or whatever. I don’t…” Charlie continues to stammer nonsensically for a bit, then shakes his head rapidly, as if he’s given up on explaining it in coherent English. “Whatever. Anyway, it’s cool.”

“No, dude, it’s _not,_ ” screeches Dennis.

“You don’t like it?” His voice is smaller, almost hurt. He scuffs the toe of one sneaker against the cracked linoleum flooring, which Dennis wishes he wouldn’t do, because it’s only going to stir up more dust.

“No! It’s insane! Charlie, what could possibly be so bad about your mom’s place that you’d voluntarily spend time here?”

Charlie freezes.

Every now and then, he gets a weird attitude about things at home, but he is either unwilling or unable to explain it. Dennis doesn’t know how to ask, or what to ask, but he figures something must be off there. Charlie’s mother seems nice enough, if completely neurotic. And while he’s never met Charlie’s Uncle Jack, the guy must be harmless if an overprotective woman like Ms Kelly would let him into her house and near her son. So Dennis can’t imagine what the problem is. And Charlie looks like he won’t explain it tonight, either.

“Fine. It doesn’t matter,” Dennis mutters at last.

Realizing he’s being let off the hook, Charlie reanimates, swinging his feet back and forth along the floor. A nagging feeling in the back of Dennis’s mind says he should reexamine this exchange later — in a less creepy location, and in better lighting.

In the meantime, he swallows past the tight feeling in his throat, and continues, “Just—Come by me and Mac’s place, if you have to get away that badly.”

Charlie shrugs one shoulder, and quietly says, “It’s not so bad, you know. I kind of like it. I mean, it’s shitty, but it’s mine. I like having my own place.”

“You haven’t ever gotten in trouble for being in here?”

Charlie bursts into quiet laughter for a moment, but quickly regains his composure. “Nah, man. Cops around here have better shit to do. Plus, I’m real quiet. Well, when you’re not here screaming about murder, anyway.”

He pointedly ignores the snide comment and Charlie’s crooked grin, because it is entirely reasonable to scream about murder when unexpectedly brought into a shithole like this.

“Yeah, so if any of the neighbors even know I’m here, it’s not like they’re gonna go out of their way to call the cops on me.” Charlie shrugs. “Although some kids did break in once, but I scared ‘em off. Way too young to be hanging around a place like this.”

“You scared them off,” Dennis repeats dubiously. “So you traumatized the children in order to save them from—”

“No, dude,” Charlie exclaims. “I just, like, kinda barked at them, you know? Like I was a rabid dog or something. They probably thought I was crazy, or whatever, ‘cause they ran off. Haven’t seen ‘em since.”

Dennis laughs incredulously, and the release eases much of the tension knotted inside his chest. He drags the remaining chair a ways away from Charlie, so they can sit facing each other. It wobbles underneath him as he sits, as he’d expected; but it’s not like it’ll literally kill him, so he lets it pass.

“So this bar thing, huh?”

Typical as it is for Charlie, the abrupt subject change throws Dennis off for a few seconds. “Huh?” he says dumbly as he mentally re-calibrates and changes subjects.

“This bar you an’ Mac are gonna open,” explains Charlie. “You got a job for me?”

“Oh, yeah, man. Of course. I bet you’re real good with your hands and shit, after all the crappy jobs you’ve worked. We’ll need that. Mac’s useless with that kind of shit. Y’know, it’s one of those things you never really find out about a person until you live with them for a while.”

“Oh, well, yeah, I can totally do that,” he agrees with an encouraging degree of eagerness and confidence — the exact opposite of the attitude Mac brings to home repairs. “All the repairs and shit, and like, all the gross stuff that you don’t wanna mess with — your flea infestations, piss and shit on the floor, the barf, the hairballs… You know, all your what-nots and your what-have-yous.”

“Right, right,” Dennis says vaguely. It’s mildly concerning that he has to point this out, but it is Charlie, so he does: “Probably not gonna have too much of the fleas and animal shit, though, buddy, since we’re not gonna be a pet shop. But learn to make a drink or two, and maybe you can help out behind the bar now and then.”

“Yeah, okay. So where are you guys on this?”

“Dude. Mac and I spent, like, all day yesterday brainstorming. Just chugging Red Bull and planning what we want the place to look like.”

Charlie’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “Sweet. Alright, alright. So what’ve you got so far?”

Dennis leans forward in the chair and braces his forearms against his knees; Charlie mirrors his posture. Huddled together like this, it feels like they’re conspiring toward something truly great here, and it sends his heart racing a little.

“So here’s the deal: my mom’s gonna give us a loan to get us started,” Dennis explains. “ _Probably_. Kinda depends on when my dad gets back from Vietnam. So we gotta move fast on this thing. Plus, Mac’s already starting to lose interest. You know how he gets.”

“Oh, yeah. Totally. Alright.”

That argument was apparently convincing enough for Charlie, who digs around in his pockets, and dumps a handful of odds and ends onto the counter. A telltale jingle spells out spare change among the pile of small objects and pocket lint.

Dennis waves him to a stop as he bends down to takes off his shoes. “What are you doing, dude?”

“Getting some cash,” Charlie replies in a matter-of-fact voice, and points to his beat-up, off-brand sneakers. “This is where I keep the real stuff. The pocket change is just a decoy.” Removing the insoles, turning the shoes upside down, and shaking them out reveals only a single dollar bill, limp with sweat and creased nearly beyond recognition.

“Gross, dude. Gross,” insists Dennis. “Just keep it. That’s not gonna get us anywhere, anyway.”

“Better than asking your mom to dig through her purse for you,” he rebuts. Nevertheless, he puts his shoes back on, replaces all his pocket garbage, and rejoins Dennis on the rickety wooden chairs.

“Her _purse_?” Dennis exclaims incredulously. “Charlie, how much money do you think it takes to start a business?”

He considers this for all of two seconds, his face scrunched up in thought. “I dunno. Like, two hundred dollars, maybe?”

“Two hund— _No_ , dude. No. In this economy? You can’t do _shit_ for two hundred dollars.”

“Bullshit, bro. I could do so much with two hundred dollars, and you know why? ‘Cause I’m not a spoiled, rich asshole.”

“Maybe,” he allows, “but the only business you’re gonna be opening up on that kind of money is a lemonade stand.”

“Okay, fine.” Charlie stares him down insistently. “How much, then? How much are you asking for? To open up a _real_ business.”

If Dennis were to be perfectly honest, he would have to admit that he hasn’t considered the exact figure, per se. His asshole of a father repeatedly insisted that Dennis should take at least a few business classes at UPenn. But, as with any suggestion from his father, Dennis automatically dismissed it on principle. Besides, nobody liked those douchebags at the Wharton School; Dennis refused to tarnish his reputation by taking classes there.

Now, however, he is beginning to consider that there might have been valuable lessons in at least _a few_ of those otherwise mind-numbingly boring classes. For example, how much does it take to open a business?

“Oh. I dunno,” Dennis mutters evasively, and rubs his hands anxiously over the denim of his jeans. “At _least_ a couple thousand? Maybe a couple hundred thousand, if we can swing it? Shit, I dunno. How much do these things _ever_ cost?”

“A couple hundred thousand?” Charlie screeches in wild disbelief. “Are you serious? I feel like you could buy a whole goddamn house for that kind of money!”

“Yeah, well, we need to buy the—” Dennis gestures vaguely. “—the place. Hang on. Or are we renting? Yeah, we would be… Alright. Okay, so maybe there are a few logistical things to sort through still. Stuff Mac and I haven’t exactly considered yet. So maybe you and I could—”

“Dude, let’s make a business plan,” Charlie exclaims as he jumps to his feet.

Dennis pouts and his shoulders slump down in defeat. “I was gonna—You totally stole my thunder there, bro.”

“Okay, well, check this out.” Charlie reaches into his army jacket and pulls out a ziplock baggie with a couple of joints inside it. “This make you feel better?”

“Oh, hell yeah, baby!”

“Probably the best way to do this kind of work.”

Dennis agrees enthusiastically, and eagerly accepts the proffered joint.

After ducking into a cabinet, Charlie emerges with a spiral notebook and tears out a few sheets of paper for Dennis. He then passes over a very chewed-on pen, which Dennis reluctantly accepts, for lack of a better writing utensil.

They smoke in near-silence for a while, muttering to themselves as they draw up their respective business plans. Charlie is frowning in deep concentration as he scribbles in big letters across the notebook; it doesn’t look encouraging.

By the time Dennis’s joint is burned down, he is long finished with his business plan, and drifting off into daydreams. Staring with eyes glazed over at the peeling wallpaper, he fantasizes about his glamorous future as the owner of Philadelphia’s hottest bar.

“Alright,” Charlie finally announces. He holds his notebook at a distance and regards his work with obvious pride. “It’s just a rough draft, but I think I’m onto something here.”

Dennis yanks the journal out of his hands and skims over the barely-legible chicken scratch:

 

_Deer Miss Dannis Mom:_

_Do u lick beer? Do u no lick flees in yur bizniss all the always? Than come to r bar u shood!!! We hav the beer, and lots of it! And no fleez!! Or even no bed bugs. WOW!! Onlee 3 low monthlee pay mints of 19.99$!!_

_And allso yur moneey give us pleez now thanks. And ASAP. Will mak bizness. Open bar, sell many drincks._

_But allso we need 4 open it, this is our bizniss plan:_

  * _bilding (most important with roof, mabye windoes, less holez in walls is good)_
  * _few chairs, or many_
  * _mop buket n broom_
  * _flee medisin or flee koller_
  * _rat traps_
  * _beers (lots lots of it!!!) and other drinks (also lots) (Sweat D licks rum most best, Dennis vodka diet cocke why? think his fat. mack beer. churlee am not pacific cuz am rilly cool guy)_
  * _prolee sum othre things too I forget? will rite to u latre if remimber_
  * _will use money 4 buy that_



_Yes so this is why we rilly need yuor monies Miss Dannez to open bizness thanks_

_Love,_

_Chralee Kellee_

_PS thanks u 4 ur mony goodbi_

 

Dennis closes the notebook, and takes a deep breath. “Jesus Christ, dude,” he exhales.

“It’s good, right?” Charlie leans forward with a grin.

“It’s terrible, bro. We’re not giving this letter to my mom.”

He shoves the notebook back at Charlie, who clutches it to his chest with a scowl.

“Okay,” he grumbles, “well, that’s just rude, because it’s a great letter.”

“No. Absolutely not. You really can’t write for shit, Charlie.”

“Fine, then. What do you have, if it’s so much better?”

Dennis hands his own paper over, and watches in rapidly growing exasperation as Charlie squints at the page in confusion. His mouth moves along silently with his attempts to decipher the words before him.

“Jesus, just give it here,” Dennis groans.

Charlie returns the pages. “It’s just, like, really dark in here, is all.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

It’s an obvious lie, but he won’t call Charlie out on it. After all, it’s not the kid’s fault that his mother and teachers let him get all the way through high school without learning how to read. Still, it’s embarrassing as shit, so at least Charlie knows enough to be self-conscious.

So he reads his own page aloud for Charlie’s benefit:

 

_Business Plan for Yet-to-Be-Named Bar — Items to Purchase:_

  * _bar — lease a place?? — $$$?_
  * _two to three dozen bar stools, approx._
  * _tables — like 6-8 maybe?_
  * _booths — 4-5?_
  * _big mirror to hang over bar_
  * _the actual bar, obviously_
  * _those neon sign things — “BEER ON TAP,” “HOT CHICKS DRINK FREE,” etc._
  * _jukebox + records (lock to keep Mac’s shitty music out?)_
  * _dance floor_
  * _pool table_
  * _old school arcade games? = $$$ (ppl pay us to play)_
  * _foosball_
  * _good lighting that doesn’t wash you out and ruin your complexion — a_ _must!_
  * _cool decor + shit to go on walls (fuck Mac — no crosses, Jesus shit, etc.)_
  * _disco ball?_
  * _restraining order to keep Dee away??_
  * _restraining order to keep_ _FRANK_ _away!!!!_



 

By the end of it, Charlie is howling with laughter. “You’re so ridiculous, dude. You’re so fucking stupid.”

He can feel his cheeks flushing red hot. “I am not! Look, all we have do do is look up the prices of that shit, and we have a solid business plan. It’s perfect, dude; I’m telling you.”

“But you didn’t even put beer on there,” protests Charlie.

“The beer is a given, Charlie; it goes without saying.”

“Hot chicks drink free, though?” He repeats. “Didn’t I hear that in there somewhere?”

“Well, yeah. Drum up business,” Dennis mutters.

“How? If they’re drinking free, that’s not a business; that’s a charity, dude.” Charlie hops up onto the grimy counter, and swings his legs back and forth as he smirks down at Dennis.

“Dude, if we have hot chicks in our bar, then hot guys come out—Or _guys_ , you know. Any guys, really. And _they_ pay us to drink. And then they buy drinks for the hot chicks. So in the end, it’s more business for us. Way more business.”

“Uh huh.” Charlie is obviously unconvinced, but doesn’t deign to dispute Dennis’s flawless logic. Instead, he rummages in the drawer beside him and, bizarrely enough, pulls out a Hershey’s bar.

“What the shit, dude? Don’t eat that.”

He reaches to slap the candy bar out of Charlie’s hands, but Charlie leans back and raises the chocolate high above his head, where Dennis can’t reach it.

“C’mon, man, you don’t know how long that’s been there, or where it’s been or anything,” Dennis chides him.

“Um, yeah I do,” Charlie grumbles. “I put it there just a couple days ago.” He tears open the wrapper without any care or precision, and takes a big bite of the chocolate. Around a mouthful of chocolate-covered teeth, he continues, “I’m telling you, dude, I’m here all the time. You hungry? ‘Cause I got plenty of shit. Help yourself, man.” He gestures at the beat-up old cabinets with the chocolate bar.

As if on cue, Dennis’s stomach growls quietly for what feels like the millionth time. He’d left his apartment vaguely hungry, but not in the mood to eat with Mac or to eat anything they had on hand. But he left himself open to the possibility of getting something to eat with Charlie, if anything promising came up. A Hershey’s bar in a condemned building wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

With some trepidation about the amount of dust and grime he’ll be getting on his hands, Dennis peeks into the ramshackle cabinets and drawers around them. There’s a surprising amount of food inside, all of it pre-packaged snacks and candy.

He looks to Charlie in confusion. “How’d you afford all this shit?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Charlie snorts. “There’s this one Wawa near my work that’s super bad about shoplifting. If you ever need anything, just lemme know, ‘cause I can get pretty much anything you want.”

“So you’re saying you _don’t_ need to be at my house every other day, eating my food.”

Charlie shrugs, entirely unfazed. “Guess not. I mean, if you wanna be stuck eating with Mac all the time, that’s your business. Otherwise, consider this payback.”

The food is horrifyingly tempting, but Dennis wrinkles up his nose in distaste all the same. “Dude. This is all junk food.”

“Yeah, and you’re high, so it’s perfect. Besides, it’s not like you let yourself eat this kinda stuff any other time. Always on that weird diet,” Charlie mutters.

“It’s not a diet; it’s a lifestyle,” Dennis says, all prim and proud. He came across that saying on a website recently; it totally stuck, and he’s been dying for a chance to repeat it to someone.

Of course, he should have known Charlie was the wrong “someone.”

“Seems like a shitty fuckin’ lifestyle, never being able to eat anything good,” he argues.

“Is it?” Dennis stands up tall, chin high, chest puffed out, all the better to display how utterly perfect and gorgeous he is. “Look at me.”

Charlie does not respond with the kind of admiration Dennis expects — no, _demands_. As he continues to munch away on his chocolate bar, he looks Dennis up and down with a blank face, seemingly unmoved by the rhetoric and the sound logic behind Dennis’s argument.

“Yeah, you’re tiny, dude,” he responds at last.

“I am not,” Dennis snaps, perhaps a little defensively for a man who diets compulsively in an attempt to control his weight. “I’m—I’m _slender_.”

“Eh, same thing. You’re a scrawny lil twink. You barely eat, and you’re not gonna survive the winter.”

“ _Charlie._ Don’t be mean,” he whines.

“Don’t be mean?” Charlie repeats, with a quiet laugh. “I’m sorry — you’re a very pretty boy, Dennis.”

Without another word, Dennis pouts, and slams the last drawer closed with more force than is strictly necessary. Fuck eating; if Charlie wants to see thin, or “scrawny,” or whatever, he’ll see what that _really_ looks like.

Charlie rolls his eyes at the childish display. “Come here.”

“No. Not if you’re just gonna keep making fun of me.”

“C’mon. I’m not making fun. Come here,” he repeats.

Reluctantly, slowly, he steps forward to stand before Charlie, who’s still sitting on the counter. Charlie sets the chocolate bar down, drags the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away the last bits of chocolate, and brushes his hands off on his jeans.

After what feels like an eternity, he reaches out to cradle Dennis’s face in his hands. “You see? Look at that. So pretty,” he murmurs.

It’s convincing this time, not at all teasing, and okay, maybe Dennis needed the validation, because it’s enough to make him melt. He relaxes into the touch and steps closer, resting his hands on the threadbare denim covering Charlie’s thighs, which are comfortingly warm under Dennis’s ice-cold fingers. Charlie’s army jacket smells like the cold evening air, and dirt, and weed, and he probably hasn’t washed it in far too long, but that’s okay, too.

Dennis leans in, and closes the last of the distance between them. The inside of Charlie’s mouth tastes like cheap chocolate, overwhelmingly sweet. For a brief moment, he idly wonders how many calories he’s absorbing from it secondhand, before he realizes how utterly fucking stupid that is, and dismisses that particular concern.

As he chases after the tase, the sensation of hunger that’s been a distracting presence at the peripheral of his awareness all night turns into a full-on gnawing pain. How many calories are in the chocolate itself? he wonders. With a little more difficulty, he dismisses that thought, too. Charlie’s right: he can totally afford it. Plus, there was that thing about surviving the winter; and even with the layers and the shared body heat, it’s cold in here.

Just then, his stomach growls especially loudly. Charlie pulls away and looks at him with one eyebrow quirked. “Dude. Was that your _stomach_?”

“Shut up. No,” he snaps.

Charlie doesn’t look impressed or fooled in the slightest.

“Fine. Yeah. Maybe,” Dennis admits haltingly. “Yeah, _okay_? Are you happy?”

“Get something to eat, would you? It’s starting to feel like you’re trying to eat my face off here.”

“It’s not my fault if you don’t know what a good, thorough kiss is like,” Dennis spits.

“I do, and uh… No.” With a shake of his head, Charlie offers up the remaining half of the Hershey’s bar, holding on to it as Dennis breaks off a piece. “After you eat,” he suggests.

“Oh, _fuck_ me, that’s good,” Dennis moans around the chocolate melting on his tongue.

Charlie chuckles and breaks off another piece for himself.

“This isn’t even good chocolate, Charlie,” he elaborates. “Hershey’s is probably the cheapest, shittiest chocolate you could get, but _goddamn_ , this is good.”

“Well, _good_ , then.”

“If I get fat ‘cause of this, I’m blaming you.”

Charlie gives him his best _you’re an idiot_ look. “Yeah, man, that sounds good. Why don’t you do that.”

“I will,” Dennis says obstinately, before stealing the rest of the chocolate bar and taking a huge bite directly from it.

The next thing Dennis knows, the two of them are sitting side by side on the counter, sharing a giant family-sized bag of potato chips. He can’t even begin to imagine how Charlie stole the thing unnoticed. The kid is a lunatic, but in the best possible way, sometimes.

The longer they sit around, however, the harder it is to ignore the cold. It seeps through every layer of Dennis’s clothing and sends a chill straight into his bones. In between mouthfuls of chips, his teeth chatter. His entire body feels like it’s covered in goosebumps. But the chips are good, and so is this moment here: this quiet moment in a dark row house; sirens regularly going by in the distance; the smell of weed lingering in the air; and Charlie, a warm, solid presence by his side.

So he’s reluctant to move. He leans into Charlie more, hoping to steal more body heat. Charlie wraps an arm around him, and they sit in silence, continuing to crunch away on their potato chips.

“You’re shaking,” Charlie murmurs after a few minutes.

“Yeah. S’cold as shit in here.”

“It’s not that bad. I mean, I’m a _little_ cold. But you’re like… you’re shaking really bad, Den. _Shit_ , dude.”

Dennis and Mac’s apartment has working heat, electricity, and running water. It has windows, walls, and a roof that are all intact. Until now, these were features he took for granted in a home.

As the shivers wrack his body further, he decides that he wants nothing more than to go home, change into a warm pair of pajamas, and curl up under his heavy duvet. Possibly with Charlie. _Preferably_ with Charlie.

“Come home with me,” he blurts out, before realizing how that might sound. “Shit. You know what I mean. It’s warmer there. You can stay over, if you want.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Charlie jumps down from the counter, and Dennis follows. They tidy up a bit, returning everything to the cupboards. Dennis tucks their respective business plans into his back pocket.

At last, Charlie turns off the lights, throwing the room into pitch blackness once more.

“Fuck,” Dennis breathes. “God, this place is creepy as hell.”

“It’s fine,” Charlie reassures him yet again, as if repetition can make it true.

All of a sudden, there’s a warm hand wrapping itself around his, and Charlie is leading him through the hall, back into the living room, and through the window, back outside.

“Fuck,” Dennis sighs again, relieved to once more be out in the safe glow of the streetlights. “Charlie, what the hell, man.”

He turns to look back as Charlie pulls the plywood flush against the window frame once more.

“Huh?” Charlie shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and gazes back at Dennis. “What’s up?”

“I’ll grant you that I didn’t get murdered, but seriously, there’s no reason for you to be hanging around a place like this. It’s like Peter Pan and the goddamn Lost Boys in there.”

Charlie doesn’t appear to understand the reference, but he doesn’t ask for clarification, either. He just silently shrugs his jacket off and drapes it over Dennis’s shoulders, and then they start off together in the direction of Mac and Dennis’s apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're reading this, it's because I actually figures out how to post a chaptered fic. hooray! also bc you're a nice person! thanks for reading! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I really did save this document on my computer using the file name "charden the small business idiots" (minus the spaces, bc how long do my file names REALLY need to be? VERY, apparently). I couldn't decide on a better title, so I decided to go with that.
> 
> I kinda want to keep editing this bc it's far from perfect, but it's honestly making me miserable. so here we are. I swore to myself that I would never post a WIP, and yet??? I feel like this could stand on its own as is, but I have 1-2 more chapters in the works. hopefully I'll finish and post them some day relatively soon(ish).
> 
> this is also my first time attempting to post something as a chaptered fic, so we shall see if this works.
> 
> PS my apologies to anyone who actually lives in and/or likes South Philly.


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